I am always surprised by how it feels to be sick. I remember sickness as a pain in a specific body part. More and more, I think, I experience sickness as a pervasive sense of ill health. Last Saturday I started the weekend with an exam at 8 a.m. I finished the test about an hour later. By noon I felt dreadfully exhausted. I drove home and pretty much collapsed into a chair for the rest of the day.

I felt better by the end of the day, and I thought I’d shaken it off. This Saturday was a replay, however. Tired beyond words. The travel I did this week, closed out by four hours of driving, certainly helped tire me, but I didn’t run particularly short on sleep. Nevertheless by the end of the day Saturday, with a good night’s sleep behind me, I still felt like the world was coming to an end. The tears of an overtired child would represent me well last night.

I’m not sure what kind of illness I am fighting off — we’re calling it the sleeping bug since that seems to be its dominant symptom — but I am unnerved by its ability to change my perception of reality. Everyday tasks appear to be sinister and unbeatable foes whose gathering power will kill me in my sleep. Particularly yesterday, I felt like I had wandered off the path in a dark wood.

Sunshine, a plan, and a little progress. That will be my medicine.